He heard whispering in Syriot, and then a rumbling answer, as if stones were scraping together.
They can talk. Oh gods, the trolls can talk!
The chains were jangling now, and branches rustled as the monsters moved, and Kattaren squeezed tightly on his sword, crouching in preparation to spring out.
No way am I going in a pot. I’ll fight and die if it comes to that.
The rustling continued, the chains jangling with every step. But they were quieter now. And as minute dragged into minute they faded until they could no longer be heard. Kattaren released his grip and breathed a long breath out. He took a moment to compose himself and then continued on his journey.
Kattaren walked through the forest in what he figured was the direction of the Kintari army, ears pricked for noise, but all he heard was the rustling and scurrying of small animals. The sound of the trickling river soon increased until he felt close to reaching it. Abbot Zendo predicted one of the clan leaders would make a stand along the river.
More than likely they’ll be on the east bank.
“Ho there!”
The call came from across a clearing and Kattaren tensed. It was definitely not a troll but he had just come across one bluecoated defector. Why wouldn’t there be more?
“Who is it?”
The other man took a while in responding and Kattaren drew his longsword, preparing for the worst.
“Well… I feel like I should be asking you that. Seeing as you’re coming from Syriot lines.”
“I’m no Syriot.”
“Oh good! Neither am I,” he said in a distinctively provincial accent. “Let’s both come out then.”
“On the count of three?”
“The count of three.”
Together they both counted aloud and then strode into the clearing, Kattaren squinting to make out the other man’s shape in the darkness, and was surprised to see a tiny spot of light. It provided little illumination but Kattaren realized after a moment that it was a lit matchcord on the other man’s musket.
“Are you from the lot that attacked the Syriots from behind?”
“The Righteous Army? Yes.”
“Righteous Army? What, like in the old stories?” The musketeer chuckled. “Well, we’re glad you lot showed up. The Emperor sent me and a few others to make contact with you and tell you to back off a bit. We’re negotiating with the Syriots.”
“What?” Kattaren barked. “Negotiating?”
The peasant backed away a pace. “Whoa there. Steady.”
“I need to talk to whoever’s in charge. We want to coordinate an attack in the morning.”
The man sighed. “Like I said, we’re talking peace… but I’ll bring you in. Can’t trust these Syriot bastards, anyway.” He pointed at a spot along the babbling river. “It’s low everywhere but that’s an easy place to cross in the dark.”
Kattaren grunted and followed the soldier toward the river.
Talking peace? Nonsense.
“Are you a Kintari man?” he asked.
“Hangyul, actually, but just on their side of the border. Got a bit of musket training and was placed with the Emperor himself. Imagine that! And me, just a rice farmer.”
"The Emperor? He’s here?”
“Oh, yes, him and the Lord Marshal. Though I’m not sure if he survived the battle.”
“Didn’t think the boy would stand and fight.”
The man abruptly paused and turned to frown at Kattaren. “Don’t call him boy. He’s the fucking Emperor. And he’s got guts, too. Stood there and fought with us. I was there.”
“Did he?” Kattaren raised his eyebrows and whistled. “Wouldn’t have figured. Thought he’d hide in a monastery somewhere.”
The frown turned into a glare.
“You watch your tongue in our army. Talk like that…” he trailed off and shook his head. “Don’t even start.”
Kattaren chuckled. “Seriously? The boy whose father burned his own palace to the ground? No one but the monks were around when the Syriots came. The nobles abandoned us in droves.”
“No, no, this Emperor is the real deal. I stood there with him, close as you are to me, holding an empty musket on account of I kept shooting at their damn balloon… well never mind that. And he says hold your ground, and here I was just about pissing myself, and he didn’t keep back or anything. Close as you are to me. I swear it.”
They made their way to the river in silence.
“Thought I was done for, I did, and-”
“Will you keep it down?” Kattaren snapped. “We’re trying to sneak back.”
“I can’t help it. I’m chatty, always been the chatty one in my village.” He kept quiet for a few moments. “What village are you from, stranger?”
“Tamani.”
“Oh. Oh… they’re… oh.”
He fell silent now and stayed silent. After a while Kattaren almost missed the chatting.
Yes, lucky you, to still have a home not overrun with Syriots.
They crested a ridgeline and even at night the view opened up below them. A tent city was being erected and the sounds of carpentry echoed across the river. It reminded Kattaren of a circus he had seen once in Tamani City. A lantern bobbed up and down in the distance as a small party made their way across the river and were hailed by guards.
That’s where we’re headed.
“Are those Syriots?” Kattaren asked, then looked around when he noticed the soldier was distracted by something.
Kattaren walked over and saw that the soldier was staring down at an individual corpse. I’ve seen enough corpses today. He looked away, squinting across the river as the band of Syriots were escorted to the second largest pavilion.
“That’s peculiar,” the soldier said, still frowning at the corpse, and now Kattaren noticed that it was blackened and the surrounding grass was scorched. The area smelled faintly of smoke.
“Was that man… burned to death?”
The two exchanged glances and shrugged.
Chapter Fifty-Nine
The Treaty
Vermilies hefted the lantern high in his left hand, the white flag resting on his right shoulder, and shouted as he splashed across the river.
“Treaty party, coming through!”
General Eben accompanied him at his side, and Sergeant Major Stradny kept just ahead of the Syriot commander, as if shielding him from potential musket fire.
Though if they really wanted to we would all end up dead. Well, there’s no point in staying quiet.
“Treaty party!” Vermilies shouted in the Standard Dialect. “Hold your fire! Coming through! Treaty party!”
“Keep it down, Vermilies,” General Eben rumbled. “They know we’re here unless they’re all blind and deaf. Try to keep some dignity. For gods’ sake.”
“Sorry, sir.”
I gave up dignity for the prospect of avoiding musket fire weeks ago.
“They’ll search us for weapons, sir,” Sergeant Major Stradny rasped.
“Yes. And?”
“That would not be fitting for one of your station.”
“I left my weapons behind. Try to endure a searching, Sergeant Major, and present them with your weapons. I will see that they do not keep them.”
Vermilies noted that neither man asked if he carried weapons. He didn’t, of course. Though my weapon is my voice. My whetstone is a lozenge. Vermilies cleared his throat.
“Treaty party, coming through!”
They passed gaptoothed sentry after slackjawed spearman after baffled guard as Vermilies led the wary Syriots to the Emperor’s pavilion.
“Not this one over here?” General Eben asked, pausing and pointing at the largest pavilion, unguarded and unlit.
“Just up ahead, sir.”
The Emperor himself was just walking into it as well, rubbing his mouth with the hem of his robe, and passed into the pavilion without a second glance. Vermilies slowed as they reached the line of Northerner guardsmen and the Syriots grumbled
as they were stopped and searched for weapons.
The Northerner commander eyed Vermilies in suspicion.
“What, again? I’m not carrying anything.”
“So what’s this down here?”
The Northerner reached down in the translator’s robe to pull out a scroll and wave it accusatorially in Vermilies’s face.
“It’s a treaty. Don’t get so handsy. You’ll have to buy me a drink next time.”
The Northerner grunted. “I buy drinks for no man.” He lifted the flap of the pavilion and waved the treaty party in.
Vermilies led the way inside, followed by General Eben, and they took the two camp stools that faced across from Emperor Banisu and his noble friend. The younger Karatsu, I believe, and he seems eager to glare at General Eben. On the other hand the boy emperor looks positively ill. Not up to the job, are you?
“We’re missing someone,” Vermilies began in Standard Dialect as he took his seat. “Lord-”
A heavy hand clapped on his back and Vermilies fell silent.
“Vermilies, I will expect you to translate my words and do nothing more,” General Eben said. “Is that understood?”
“Perfectly.”
“Ask them where their commander is. Fer… Fer something? Too scared to meet me face to face, is he? I mean to negotiate with the leader; not the figurehead. I’m displeased that you haven’t made that clear already.”
“My apologies, sir,” Vermilies said, and translated the boy’s response. “He says the Lord Marshal died of his wounds.”
And the boy seems to be taking his death very hard.
General Eben smiled. “Good, good. Don’t translate that. But who shall speak for the nobility?”
“I am the Emperor of the Three Clans,” the boy said once the question was translated. “I speak for everyone.”
“I suppose that simplifies matters,” Vermilies said. He turned and said a few words to General Eben, who shrugged.
“It does indeed,” the boy said, staring into the distance.
There was a rapping on the entrance to the pavilion and the Northerner commander stuck his weather-worn face in, metal helm scraping the top of the tent.
“We’re in the middle of something,” the boy snapped.
“I have a messenger from the Righteous Army. Shall I send him in?”
“The…” Banisu glanced at Lin Karatsu and though he kept his voice low Vermilies still heard. “The what army?” Lin shrugged and Banisu turned to blink several times at the Northerner.
“Yes, send him in.”
The Northerner disappeared, and a moment later the flap opened to reveal a lean, weather-worn bald man cloaked in a white initiate monk’s robe that was heavily stained with blood and dirt. He paused for a moment, looking in confusion at the gathering and staring for a long moment at General Eben.
“Report,” Banisu said.
The lean man bowed toward the Emperor.
“Emperor Banisu, Abbot Zendo’s Righteous Army has arrived. We have hit the enemy in the rear and given them a thorough beating.”
Vermilies licked his lips and translated the exchange to the impatient general. The Syriot snorted dismissively but Vermilies could tell he was uneasy.
“Excellent,” Banisu said in a casual tone. “And Abbot Zendo, is he well? Are the men ready to attack at first light if need be?”
The lean man stood there in silence for a long moment. “Ever ready, Emperor.”
“Well.” The boy smiled confidently across the table. “You see how it is.”
General Eben shifted in his seat as this news was translated.
“This changes nothing,” he muttered, as the monk left with new orders to cease fighting. Vermilies kept his face carefully neutral.
“Now then,” General Eben said with a clap of the hands. “On to an agreement on shipping rights.”
Vermilies spent the next several minutes in a whirlwind linguistic exchange of the general’s demands, the Emperor’s retorts, and Lin Karatsu’s occasional grumbles. His mind was aching with the strain of interpreting the minutia of multiple languages and relaying whatever was said into his ear.
This must be what trumpets feel like.
“So I believe that just about covers the section on transit rights,” Vermilies concluded, feeling he was about to get a headache.
The boy snorted. “Transit rights? What gives you Syriots the right to transit in the first place?”
“Why, our powerful navy,” Vermilies said.
Our. As if I’m a Syriot.
The boy sniffed. “Well, your army isn’t so powerful.” Vermilies again resisted rolling his eyes.
Who would entrust an empire to this little brat?
“What’s he saying?” General Eben hissed.
“And I want to go back again to the section on duties levied,” the boy said. “12% is too low. We need to bring it up to 18% at a minimum.”
“What are you, a merchant? I never knew a boy so eager to haggle over paperwork.”
The boy glared. “Call me a boy one more time and the negotiations are over.”
Vermilies breathed in and out slowly. Patience, Vermilies. Just deal with this brat and you’ll be done. He smiled. “Right, your majesty. A thousand apologies.”
Vermilies paused to translate the exchange for the scowling Syriot.
“18%? The nerve of the little rascal. My men didn’t die so that we’d pay 18% on duties. Tell him 15% or we start this all again in the morning.”
There was a quick verbal flurry and a pained nod.
“The Emperor is willing to accept 15%.”
“Of course the little shit is. He’s lucky to be alive.”
“Sir, I would very much doubt any of them speak Syriot, but it is my experience that it is best to be, ah… prudent in your verbiage. If you’ll forgive my suggestion.”
The general sniffed. “Gods, how I’d love to run the impudent little bastard through with my sword.” He smiled and extended his hand. “These barbarians know how to shake, don’t they?”
After a moment Banisu extended his hand and they shook.
“He has the grip of a newborn eel,” General Eben said, his teeth gritted in a smile.
“General Eben is pleased to have concluded this treaty,” Vermilies said. The boy nodded, wincing as he pulled his hand back.
“Now give the little fucker the scroll.”
“We would be honored if you were to sign your name to the agreed-upon terms.” Vermilies unfurled the scroll, the terms written in both languages, and spread it open on the desk under the dim lantern light. “Just sign here. And here. And… here. And once more here.”
Chapter Sixty
Once a King
Prince Sharnipur sat astride Ranvir in silence and watched the tiny column leaving the fishing village as it passed by a relieving garrison. They earned the right to it, damn them. But they are so few… half of them look more like bandits than Syriots.
The prince tried to put it out of his mind. He was a new man this morning. The rage had left him.
“Someone’s coming,” Sanjay said from behind him. Prince Sharnipur turned, glancing up to the howdah and half-expecting to see Anander looking down. But of course he was dead, and the howdah was partially smashed, with some stains that looked to be permanent. The noble youth from the day before was approaching once again, a soldier from the Ranvir Guard moving to stop him, as Guard Captain Ajit looked up.
“Let him through,” Prince Sharnipur said, and the messenger was allowed to approach.
Lin Karatsu, was it?
“I bring a message from the Emperor himself,” Lin announced with a jaunty smile. “With the Syriots withdrawing, Emperor Banisu has decided to take the Imperial Army back to his mountain monastery and track down the retreating Kintari forces. He requests you stay another day to watch the Syriot lines and then follow behind him.”
The prince nodded. “‘Imperial’ Army, is it? I thought the clan leaders ran it.”
&nbs
p; Lin Karatsu grinned. “The clan leaders are gone and done for. There’s a new era now. The Emperor will unify his forces as one. Lord Feruke Hangyul dead, Lord Palani Shinzen dead, thanks to your lordship,” Lin inclined his head in respect, “and the Emperor stands alone.”
The prince scratched his beard. “Alone? There is still me. And General Kintari.”
“Ohohoh,” Lin chuckled. “I would not want to be in General Samuso Kintari’s position.”
The youth waved a cheery goodbye and made his way back to the Imperial lines. Prince Sharnipur saw that the tent city was already being disassembled. He turned back to look across the Irragonda River, but other than a distant balloon he could no longer make out any other Syriot forces. He stared at the motionless balloon for a while.
They’re keeping an eye on us as well.
Prince Sharnipur patted Dhamdalek on the back. “Well! It seems the fighting is over. Take Ranvir back and give him a good scrub down. He’s earned it.”
The prince slid off the elephant and walked the short distance back into his encampment. A few other war elephants and their crews remained on guard but the bulk of the men and elephants had been allowed to rest, and their laughter and trumpeting brought a smile to his face as the bearded halberdiers let him through the inner perimeter.
His smile faded as he looked at the bustling field hospital, a nest of tents in churned up mud set up haphazardly at dusk last night, and somehow looking even more chaotic in the light of day. Still, he had his duty to perform, and he strode without pause to the entrance. He passed by two grim-faced orderlies bearing a Veldtlander on a stretcher. Another one who hadn’t made it. The Elephant Corps had suffered heavily the day before and already a pile of discarded limbs was growing outside. Still, I’ve seen worse. Much worse.
Prince Sharnipur stopped by bed after bed to say a few words to those who were awake and conscious. One of the Veldtlander skirmishers struggled upright when he approached, his knee swaddled in bandages, and the prince waited for him to speak.
“Sir, Javeed was with us in the thick of the fighting. His elephant covered our withdrawal.”
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